Absolution
by Mendeia
Summary: Oneshot. Vignette on life, death, and honor. Leonardo can only clean his katana in one place this night...


Not entirely sure where this came from. It just walked up and insisted I write it.

Disclaimer: I do not own the TMNT. They are the property of Mirage and Peter Laird, who is my hero. I am not making any money from this, just enjoying a few cherished characters as only a fangirl can.

Enjoy!

* * *

Good and evil.

Leonardo had been raised with the concepts, had them embedded in his very soul, and yet some nights he still couldn't tell them apart.

There was a place in the sewers that the turtles knew, and avoided whenever they could. And yet all four had cause to appear there sometimes. It was a place where the water that trickled from a pipe was relatively clean, a leak from a city fountain rather than the usual wastewater. It was also where part of the tunnel had broken apart long ago, leaving the earth to encroach. Nothing grew down here – it wasn't a garden underground – but there was exposed dirt and clean water. When the turtles had first found it in their youth, it had been a treasured retreat, an underground Eden. The water had tasted better than most of their fare until Donatello had built a simplified purifier. The dirt had felt wonderful on their feet, softer and more "right" than cement and brick ever did. It had been a wonderful place.

Now, though, they used it for another purpose.

Tonight it was Leo who had had to make the pilgrimage here, still dripping with sweat from the fight on the surface and limping from a well-placed kick to his knee. His brothers had told him it should be wrapped first, but the steel in his eyes would not be denied. And, truth be told, each one of them had refused treatment for this before. Some things were more important than one's own comfort.

Leo lit the candles that had been replaced as needed some days before, watching as they shed dancing light over the dark tunnel. He dropped to his knees next to the steady stream of clean water, feeling the moistness of the mud squelch against his legs even as he winced as his knee bent stiffly. One katana he respectfully leaned against the wall beside him. It had served him well tonight. The other he took and laid across his palms, staring intently.

Blood winked back at him dully.

Generally, the turtles' weapons always came away from a fight bloody. How could one strike an enemy of flesh and not draw blood? But there were two kinds of blood, two kinds of strike. Of all his brothers, it was Leo who was least often brought here, and somehow that made it even harder on those rare occasions that it happened. That his blades drew not the blood of injury and victory, but the heart's blood itself. That his hands became red with the last drops of a life.

The turtle meditated a moment on the honor of the ninja he had slain tonight, and found no comfort. Sometimes the ones who died in their battles were savages, barely worthy of the ninja uniform they wore. Sometimes they were true warriors, proud to die in the service of one they revered, albeit an evil master. But tonight's had been neither of these, instead a boy barely trained, apparently added to the squad to gain experience. His skills had been good, though untested, but it was his nerve that had faltered. He had been one of four Foot Ninjas attacking Leonardo all at once, and a moment of terror had caused him to take a terrible misstep. At the same instant, Michelangelo had been overwhelmed and was in trouble. Leo had reacted on instinct, slicing away the weakest of the four against him to spring to help his brother. It was only after he had assisted Mikey that he had turned to see his handiwork: a neatly severed leg right at the femoral artery, and an already dead boy.

There had been no time for anything as the battle had roared over many rooftops and away from the scene, and when the turtles finally caused the remaining Foot to disengage they had no opportunity to return. All they could do was retreat home to patch up their bodies and souls. They cleaned the weapons they could clean at home, all but one katana.

Opening his eyes, Leonardo felt his face turn to stone as he drew the still-bloody tip of his sword against the wall. It left a neat scar, and a dark drop, in a field of others. Some were cuts wider and deeper than the one he had left – these were from Raphael's sai. Some were blunt and struck from an angle, evidence of Mikey's nunchaku. And some were blunt and round, perfect circles of Donnie's bo staff. Perhaps surprisingly, it was the bo and nunchaku impressions that were most common. Though, or perhaps because their weapons were not bladed, Michelangelo and Donatello most often found their strength crack skulls beyond repair. They could but strike hard, and if the blow landed on the head instead of a shoulder or leg, it could be fatal. It was easier for the elder two turtles to avoid death simply by having the option to strike with a different kind of force, a different means of technique.

On a bad night, all four turtles might journey together to this place of memory, of respect, of loss, of sorrow. No brother ever walked the path to this place unless he had killed – all felt this was the burden of failure to be borne alone. Not failure in battle, for obviously they had won the day, but failure to defend life, even an enemy's life. The first many times, the trips had been torture, and the shadows of the place had followed them long after returning to the lair. Now, though each still felt the pain of it as keenly as they ever had, now at least they could mostly leave the burden behind when they turned to go.

After counting the tally that was no source of pride to anyone, realizing with a start how large it had become in their war against the Shredder, Leo hung his head in shame. Death was not the legacy he or any of his brothers wished to leave, and yet here it was, meticulously recalled. As he placed his bloodied katana in the falling stream of fresh water, he resolved to do better. To practice more. To become so skilled that he would never, ever strike a killing blow without noticing again.

The clean water ran over the katana, seemingly cooling a heat that was more perceived than actually felt. Leonardo carefully moved his thick fingers along the blade, slowly freeing the dried blood to run and flow with the water. The redness clouded the water and dripped onto the wet dirt, mingling with the long-since rinsed away evidence of other bloods, other lives. A nearby rag, permanently stained, found its way into Leo's hand and wrapped itself around the blade. Though the turtle normally cleaned his weapons with sharp efficiency, always here he did it slowly, with great attention and care. He needed to see every drop of blood before it was gone, needed to count every sin before they washed away.

And when the katana gleamed again, a tiny part of the turtle's heart fell back into place. He could not undo what he had done, but his sword was clean again. Now he could try once more. Leonardo gathered up his other katana and sheathed them both. He bowed to the water, to the lives whose passage it had witnessed, and turned. The candles would burn themselves down in a few hours, a final token offering to the lives remembered and forgotten here.

Even when he was beyond their light, he could still hear the water trickling behind him.


End file.
